I stand up tall but never roam, a quiet guard of harvest home. I keep what’s grown yet never eat, I store the gold you cannot meet. My name sounds like I stand alone, yet I am filled when crops are grown. Empty or full, I always wait, a rural tower that feeds your fate.

I have problems. Lots of problems. Fortunately, solving them is expected.

Light paints a blank wall, Stories bloom in darkened rooms, Dreams flicker and fade.

Down, quills, hollow bones. All of this a bird owns. One more word fits the group, how indeed to fly the coop?

People in ice houses shouldn’t throw snowballs